Danse Macabre
by Camberleigh Fauconbridge
Summary: Where was Joseph Buquet during the gala's dress rehearsal? What was Erik's real motive for killing Buquet during "Il Muto"? What if Meg was in the center of a subplot that neither Gaston Leroux nor Andrew Lloyd Webber explored? 25th Anniversary. Caveat: a high T.
1. Chapter 1

**IMAGINED CAST**: Daisy Maywood as Meg; Nick Holder as Buquet; Ramin Karimloo as the Phantom; Liz Robertson as Madame Giry; Hadley Fraser as Raoul; Sierra Boggess as Christine; Barry James as Firmin; Gareth Snook as André

**DISCLAIMER**: _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ and its musical counterpart are the property of Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Charles Hart, all casts and all creative teams that have ever produced any production of _The Phantom of the Opera_. No money is being made off this story.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Yes, I am aware that the title is a little cliché, but it fits with this.

This came about from thinking about the different versions of the _Magic Lasso_ scene (in Leroux, told by Meg; in Webber, told by Buquet), wondering where Buquet really was when he "wasn't at his post", and noticing that in the 25th Anniversary, Daisy Maywood as Meg was missing from the _Dance of the Country Nymphs_.

This is a high T. You have been warned.

* * *

1.

"Mlle. Giry, La Sorelli is ill. You're to go on in her place as the _prima ballerina_ for the gala."

"...w— what?"

The call boy rolled his eyes. "I said, Sorelli—"

"No, I heard you, but— why am I going in her place? Shouldn't Jammes...?"

"Does it look like I know?"

Meg sighed. "Is there anything else?"

"You're supposed to report to Mme. Giry."

"Thank you." Just as the call boy was leaving, she called out: "Do you know who decided that I should go in Sorelli's place?"

"Some people are saying it was the Opera Ghost. A load of rubbish if you ask me." Then the call boy was gone, leaving Meg alone in the green room.

Surely there had been a mistake. Of course there had. The new managers, André and Firmin— they hadn't the slightest clue what was going on. And her mother had made it quite clear that Meg was not ready to be Sorelli's cover.

And it couldn't have been the Phantom. That wasn't even a possibility.

Meg went to the dancers' rehearsal room for the last rehearsal before the dress rehearsal. Her mother was walking between the two rows of dancers, tapping her cane on the pale wooden floor for a tempo.

Meg tried to be as unassuming as possible, but her plan to slip in quietly without anyone noticing failed. Brown, blue, hazel, and green eyes all looked at her as she went to her place on the _barre_— evidently they had all heard the news of Sorelli. There were no secrets in an opera house.

"Focus, girls," Mme. Giry said, trying to bring the girls' attention back to the warm-ups. "Let's start again."

"Meg, how did you get to be Sorelli's cover?" Cecile Jammes whispered. "Honestly, I've heard in every rehearsal how Madame thinks you're not good enough to be the understudy for the prima ballerina!" Cecile's sharp green eyes, framed by long, thick lashes, stared at Meg. Meg tried not to feel jealous. Cecile had the lithe hourglass figure, the swan-like neck, the long slim legs that every ballet mistress dreamed of, including her mother. Along with the green eyes and lush dark hair that turned heads, Meg wasn't sure why Cecile wasn't the cover for Sorelli.

Meg, on the other hand, was shorter and did not have long, graceful limbs. She was slender, but not to the point of Cecile— or Christine, for that matter. Meg's light hair was thick and naturally curled, true, but it was an absolute nightmare trying to fit it underneath a wig of a different hair color. She was a good dancer— she had worked on nothing else for years— but she didn't look the part like Cecile did.

"I don't know how I got it, Cecile," she answered.

"Of course you do! Everyone's saying it's the Opera Ghost, though why he's interested in _you_, I have no idea. _I_should have gotten it." Clearly, humility was not one of Cecile's virtues.

"It wasn't the Op—"

"Meg!"

Meg started and turned to see her mother looking at her disapprovingly. "How can you be the _prima ballerina_for tonight and talk during rehearsals?"

"Maman, it's not like that—" And after all, Cecile was half to blame.

"No excuses, Meg. There will be a fine the next time you talk." Meg almost retorted, but bit her tongue. It wasn't fair that her own mother was threatening to charge fines on her own daughter. Mme. Giry continued: "Meg and Cecile, come to the front, and everyone else assemble for the ballet interlude during _Annibale_'s first number."

Meg ran up to her mother before Cecile reached the front. "Maman, please don't put Cecile in the front. She's the one who started talking. Why not put Christine in the front?"

"Meg, you know that Cecile is a better dancer than either you or Christine—"

That stung. "Please, maman, Christine has been working hard—"

"She has been missing many rehearsals, Meg."

"But she practices on her own, I've seen her."

"She has too many black marks on her record."

"Please, maman, for me. Christine is my friend, and Cecile is the one who got me in trouble in the first place."

Mme. Giry looked Meg in the eye. "Are you sure she is qualified?"

_Not really. Almost, but not quite_. "Yes."

Her mother sighed. "If it's that important to you. And we will discuss your fine later. Christine!" Christine looked up from the back of the room. "Come to the front of the room, please."

"Christine, you will be dancing with Meg in the front," Mme. Giry said once Christine had joined Meg and Cecile, "and Cecile, you will be taking the spot that Christine had taken."

"Madame!" Cecile gasped.

"Madame, are you sure I should?" Christine asked nervously.

"Meg specifically asked for you to dance alongside of her." Cecile glared at Meg, seeing the implications.

"Thank you, Meg, but really, I don't think I'm ready—"

"Christine Daaé, do you want a fine for talking back?"

Christine stared at the floor. "Non, madame."

"Good. Cecile, to the back of the line, please."

"But, madame—"

"Do you want a fine as well, Jammes? What is it with you girls?"

Before Meg could stop her, Cecile said— loud enough so the entire _corps_ could hear— "We all think it's strange that Meg is La Sorelli's cover. Everyone's saying that the Opera Ghost made Meg the _prima ballerina_for the gala."

"There is no such thing as the Opera Ghost, and no spirit made Meg the _prima ballerina_."

"Who did, then?" Meg couldn't help but ask.

"I did," replied her mother. "Enough talk about things that do not exist! Everyone into their places, please! We are wasting time!"

Meg couldn't shake off the feeling that her mother wasn't being quite truthful.

* * *

The rehearsal ended late, with just enough time to get a quick supper before the dress rehearsal. Nerves were high, and the general unspoken consensus was that the dress rehearsal would not go well. As a rule dress rehearsals never went well, anyway.

Meg was already dressed in the slave girl costume, jittery and feeling as though she shouldn't have changed so early; the costume was quite revealing, and she was getting looks from the stagehands.

"Giry!"

Meg turned, her blonde curls like stacks of gold coins in sunlight, and saw Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand. He was holding his customary bottle of whiskey— or perhaps today it was ale or gin or beer or cheap wine— in his hand.

"Do you need something, Buquet?"

"I wanted to show you something, Little Giry, since you're the one interested in the horror stories."

"How did you know that I— what on earth are you talking about?"

"I'll show you." When Meg did not move, he added, "It has to do with the Opera Ghost, if that means anything to you."

He laughed, softly, when she began to follow him.

He led her to the third level of cellars, to an out-of-the-way workshop that doubled as a storage space. It looked as if it had rarely been used; the old, damaged set pieces were covered in cobwebs. They stopped in a dark, cobwebbed corner, by a set piece for _Roi de Lahorie_.

They were the only ones in the cellar.

"And this relates to the Opera Ghost..."

Buquet looked around and lowered his voice. "I saw the Opera Ghost, right here. They all think I was drunk, but I'm probably the only one to have seen him. What do you think of that?"

Meg privately thought Buquet had, indeed been drunk, and had dragged up a hallucination that he attributed to being the Opera Ghost. There couldn't be any other explanation.

"You don't believe me, now," Buquet said. "I'll tell you what he looked like, if that'll convince you. He's pale, got black eyes and hair, wears one of them fancy dress-suits, and has a white mask over half his face. That good enough?"

It was, actually, because Meg had seen someone who had fit Buquet's description.

She had been running to the stage from the green room after changing costumes for a ballet in _Faust_. One of the sleeves in the particular costume would always come undone, so she would be forced to stop constantly to fix it.

Then she saw a shadow in the catwalk above her.

At first she had dismissed it, thinking it was a stagehand. But she looked closer, because no stagehand wore a white half mask.

The man was kneeling on the floorboards of the catwalk, a beaded cloak around his shoulders, and looking at Meg with his dark eyes, and she felt as if she couldn't do anything else except look back at him.

Then a call boy ran up to her and told her she would miss her cue, and she ran off.

Buquet's description fit, strangely enough. But he couldn't have seen the Opera Ghost.

"Buquet, I'm not sure about this... are you _sure _you saw someone you claim is the Opera Ghost?"

"Would I lie to you, Meg?" he leered.

"It's _Mademoiselle Giry _to you," she snapped, "and yes, I believe you would."

"It pains me that you think so low of me," he countered back. "Let me make it up to you—"

"It's perfectly all right, Buquet." She took a step back. He followed her.

"Don't be so stiff, Meg—"

"—_Mademoiselle Giry, Buquet_—!"

"—surely obeying your mother's every command gets old."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You're still a virgin, aren't you?"

Meg raised her right hand to strike him as hard as she could, but he gripped her wrist, stopping her. "You can't stand not being little Mademoiselle Goody-Two-Shoes, not being Giry's favorite."

"Let _go _of me, Buquet!" she hissed.

"Why not run back to rehearsal, Meg?" he whispered maliciously. The scent of his alcohol-tainted breath was overpowering. "You certainly won't find out anything about the Phantom that way, if that's what you want."

He finally released her wrist, which was now red and throbbing. "I know Giry won't talk about it," he concluded. "I could tell you more after the gala, but only if you come alone."

She ran then, sprinting as fast as she could out of the cellar, up the stairs, and into the backstage area. The ribbons of her pseudo-skirt tangled together so she was forced to stop.

The shadow was in the catwalk, just like the first time.

He only looked at her for a few moments this time. He stood up and moved towards the gigantic pillar-set piece that was stored above the stage.

Meg ran, praying nothing would go wrong.

But, of course, it did.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Meg quietly closed the door of Christine's new dressing room behind her, trying to ignore the fact that once again, her mother was staying behind to talk to Christine and Meg had been ordered out. Meg didn't resent Christine, but sometimes it felt as if Mme. Giry cared more for her foster-daughter than her own flesh-and-blood offspring.

_It doesn't matter_.

Perhaps if she told herself that enough times, she might actually believe it.

The new managers were coming down the hallway. The Comte de Chagny, Mme. Firmin, a woman on André's arm, and a young man that Meg didn't recognize were with them.

"Mademoiselle," the young man said as Meg was passing the group, "is this the right way to Mlle. Daaé's dressing room?" Meg heard the Comte de Chagny mutter "_rogue_" under his breath.

"Yes, monsieur, the last door on the right."

"Thank you, mademoiselle." Meg smiled, curtsied respectfully, and left. If the Comte de Chagny wasn't interested in Christine— _but he's involved with Sorelli_, Meg remembered— then the young man certainly was.

She turned a corner to enter another deserted hallway, and was once again alone.

She had two options. She could go to the Dancer's Hall, listen to Lefèvre give one of three farewell speeches, be irritated by Cecile's constant chatter about the Opera Ghost, and possibly sneak a little champagne under her mother's nose. Or...

Or she could try to find Buquet.

Her gut was telling her to go to the Dancer's Hall. It was safer there, and afterwards she could find Christine and everything would be fine.

But then Buquet's words rang in her head.

_You can't stand not being little Mademoiselle Goody-Two-Shoes, not being Giry's favorite_.

Sneaking champagne was downright stupid.

And Cecile would scoff at her even more; she had a habit of finding out things like this.

_Not being Giry's favorite_.

Fine.

She'd go find Buquet.

After searching three other likely places, Meg circled back towards Christine's dressing room; perhaps Buquet had gone to offer his congratulations? She knew it was highly unlikely, but she had been searching for an hour already.

Then, all of a sudden, she heard Buquet calling her name behind her. It was becoming a slightly eerie occurrence.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. "I've been looking for an hour!"

"Oh, so you decided to come."

Meg, fuming, said nothing.

"So since I've made you furious, I should show you something to make it up to you?"

"Something like that," she snapped.

He grinned in a way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. "Come with me."

As they went down the hallway towards Christine's dressing room in a frosty silence, they passed the young man that had asked Meg where the dressing room was. Meg curtsied to him, nodding politely, but Buquet just looked at the young man and kept walking. Meg gave the young man an apologetic glance for Buquet and hurried after the scene-shifter.

Neither noticed the young man stop at the end of the hall, looking back as if he sensed something was not right.

Once they reached the room, Buquet reached for the door handle, but Meg spoke before he could open the door. "What are you doing? She could be changing, Buquet!"

"Do you think I mind?"

Her skin crawled, but she tried to ignore it. "Let me go in first. And _don't_ look in." She knocked lightly on the door, calling Christine's name. There was no response. Meg tried the door and found it unlocked. She carefully looked in, and found no one inside. Perhaps Christine had left for the night or gone to the Singer's Hall already. "She's not here."

"What a pity." Buquet pushed past Meg, making her stumble onto the doorframe.

He went to the gilded floor-to-ceiling mirror, which was surprising. Surely the Opera Ghost didn't have anything to do with something as trivial as mirrors.

Buquet saw her look of puzzlement. "You didn't think mirrors had anything to do with it, did you?" He began feeling around the edges. "There's actually four other rooms that have two-way mirrors."

"Two-way mirrors? Why would he..."

"In the case of Christine Daaé, I'd say he's perverted."

"_Joseph Buquet!_"

He actually had the nerve to look surprised. "What?"

"How _dare_ you say something like that! You vile—"

"You sound like your precious mother right now, you know that?"

"I do not, and you do not have any right to say things like— like _that_!"

He stopped searching around the mirror edges and straightened. "Are you saying this just because you'd like to be in Christine Daaé's place with the two-way mirrors?"

She ran at him and started clawing at him. But in one strong movement, he grasped her by the wrists and flung her across the room. She hit the wall and crumpled to the wall, unaware that she was screaming.

She didn't hear footsteps running towards the dressing room until she saw the young man in the doorway.

"What is going on here?"

Buquet— what she heard, she was unable to look at anything except the top of Christine's wardrobe— said nothing.

"_Monsieur, explain yourself!_ From what I saw you just attacked this young woman!"

She heard footsteps running out of the dressing room; the young man was still there, so she assumed Buquet had fled without giving an explanation.

She felt hands on her shoulders and flinched. "Don't touch me," she gasped out. Instantly the hands lifted away.

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle, I did not mean to cause you any more harm. Can you sit up?" Every part of her body screamed in protest, but Meg, after a while, managed to sit and leaned against the wall. "Can you tell me what happened, mademoiselle?"

She really, really didn't want to. But she found herself talking anyway— albeit abbreviating most of the details. "He and I were talking and he— said something that upset me greatly. I'm afraid I was in the wrong because I tried to strike him. And you know the rest; he threw me against the wall."

"You were not in the wrong, mademoiselle—"

"I was, monsieur—"

The young man sighed. "Perhaps what you were trying to do was wrong, but it sounds to me like you were trying to defend yourself or something or someone."

"You could say that."

"Then he had no justification for throwing you against a wall." He extended a hand. "Would it be all right if I assisted you to the opera's doctor, mademoiselle?"

"I don't need to go to the doctor."

"From what I can guess, your entire left side will be covered with bruises, and you may have possibly broken a few ribs. Recovery will be faster if you receive medical attention."

Then the thought occurred to her that with broken ribs, she wouldn't be able to dance until they healed.

"All right."

"Good. And I promise I'll be careful." He held out his hand. "I'm Raoul. The entire thing's _M. le Vicomte de Chagny_, if you want the full glory of it. B ut since we're not meeting under the most traditional of circumstances, my first name is fine."

She carefully took his hand. "I'm Meg. Meg Giry."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mlle. Giry. Are you able to stand?"

She tried to, she really did, but it felt like knives were being twisted into her diaphragm. She let out breathy, well-placed curses and sat back down.

"I'm taking it that you can't. I'll bring the doctor here, then. Try not to move, as much as you can. I'll be back soon." With one last worried glance at Meg, he left. Meg leaned back, her head resting on the wall.

_Why_ had she agreed to talk to Buquet for the second time? For some idiotic "rebellious" reason, so that Cecile wouldn't make fun of her? She had wanted to find out more about the Opera Ghost, but Buquet, it seemed, had no qualms about hurting her, for whatever purpose he had. Why couldn't she have just asked for an answer from her mother? Would it have been that hard? _No_.

Raoul came with the opera doctor after a while. Raoul stood near the door as the doctor evaluated Meg's injuries and gave the same answer that Raoul had guessed. She did not cry from the pain when the doctor gently probed at the area of her ribs. She had expected she would; but the source of her tears seemed to have disappeared.

The doctor and a nurse helped Meg to the main foyer of the opera house, Raoul carrying Meg's belongings. Mme. Giry, it seemed, had left earlier and did not know of her daughter's injuries. Raoul hailed a taxi carriage, and Meg was helped out of the rain into the relative safety of the carriage.

Before the carriage left, Meg leaned out the window— or tried to— and said to Raoul, "Monsieur, I can't begin to thank you enough for all your help. If you see my mother— Eléanore Giry, the ballet mistress— will you tell her— what happened, please?"

"Of course. I'll tell the managers, as well. I sincerely hope nothing like this happens again, mademoiselle."

"So do I." The carriage lurched forward, making Meg wince horribly. Even though it was too far away for anyone to hear her, she whispered again, "Thank you."

* * *

Eléanore stormed into the music room of the house on the man-made island. The door, thrown open, made such a loud bang against the wall that Erik spat, "What are you _doing_, Eléanore? Christine is asleep in the other room!"

"While you were off seducing Christine, Erik, I had a very interesting conversation with the Vicomte de Chagny!"

"What the hell does the Vicomte—"

"For heaven's sake, will you put aside your vendetta for the vicomte for one minute? He told me that Joseph Buquet had hurt Meg!"

"It's not my problem, Eléanore, shouldn't you be talking to the manag—"

Eléanore slapped him, hard.

"_What—!_"

"_How can you say that?_" Eléanore cried. "If _nothing else_, she is part of your opera company, you should care about her safety!"

"Eléanore, let's be reasonable about this—"

"I will not be _reasonable_ about this! This is my _daughter_ that has been attacked, by someone in your _own opera company_! You should at least feel a small _shred_ of sympathy! Write to the managers, do _something_, anything so that Meg nor anyone else will not be hurt by Buquet in the future! How would you feel if Buquet hurt Christine?"

"All right, all right. I'll write to the managers, if it will get you to calm down."

Eléanore sat down, finally calm, but it was one of those calms that comes from hysteria. "You don't care, do you?"

"Of course I care." If he thought about it more, then, yes, he supposed he could convince himself to care.

"You've never even known she existed before today. Am I correct?"

"I knew she existed, I remember when she was small enough to cling to your skirts."

"So you didn't, then." Eléanore got up, looking, well— _defeated_. "If you won't do anything, I'll forge an note saying that you want Buquet fired, or something of that nature."

She turned to him. "Perhaps looking at it this way: a young girl, who hasn't done anything wrong, is attacked simply because she exists. Does that remind you of anything?"

That was low, and they both knew it. "Your daughter isn't deformed, as far as I know."

"Perhaps not physically, but because she _doesn't stand out_, so Buquet didn't have any guilt over attacking someone who isn't really there. Does that remind you of anything else?"

"Your daughter is not a forgotten Christine, Eléanore!"

"_Her name is Meg_, Erik! I've seen her cry when she thinks no one is looking, because another girl is _prima ballerina_, another girl is the new _prima donna_, and there is nothing left for her."

"If her problem is envy, I can't help you."

"It's not, Erik. I heard her once admit to Christine that she feels as if she is already dead, just a walking corpse. No one notices her, she said, though it looks as though she will receive only the wrong attention."

"Then she is depressed, and again, I can't help you."

"Erik—" Eléanore reached out and took his hand. He instantly slid his hand out of her grasp. "Erik, _please_. Just— look at her for once. You'll see why it's necessary to write to the managers."

"Fine. To make you happy, I'll look for her tomorrow. Are you satisfied?"

Eléanore just looked at him. "Be careful with Christine," was all she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes." Eléanore left, quietly closing the door behind her. Erik left the music room and went into the parlor, walking quietly as to not wake Christine. He pulled out a sheet of paper, lined in the customary black, and picked up the fountain pen filled with red ink.

He hadn't been entirely truthful when he said he only remembered Meg as a small child. He had seen her around the opera house; she always seemed to be getting into things she shouldn't be, especially when she was younger. For some reason, he couldn't remember if she had changed like Eléanore had said.

He'd have to see tomorrow. Tonight he had to care for Christine.

* * *

**And before anyone asks, no, this is not to be taken as Raoul/Meg. Raoul is simply being a gentleman; he is in love with Christine. And Meg isn't trying to make Raoul fall in love with her.**


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Erik almost forgot about his promise to Eléanore the next morning.

Christine had betrayed him so deeply that it was hard to look her in the face, because he always wondered whether she was lying or not. _Damn_ her foolish curiosity. He was— mostly— content to remain aloof, to simply be her mysterious Angel sent from her father. But of course, she had to wonder what he concealed beneath his mask.

But once Christine was back in her dressing room and the mirror was between them once more, he remembered. Eléanore's daughter— he kept forgetting her name. He had better things to do with his time than search all over the opera house for a ballerina, but Eléanore would find out that he had broken his word. And though the Opéra Ghost's wrath was said to be legendary, a furious Eléanore Giry was not something he wanted to encounter.

So he looked for Eléanore's daughter.

It was harder than he thought.

He saw her towards the end of the morning, as she was slowly walking with her mother in the foyer. She wore a loose, thin dress that, in the right light, showed a figure covered in bandages. Why she would return when she was injured, he did not know.

Then it seemed as if she had disappeared. She wasn't in the ballet dancers' rehearsal room, she wasn't in the dormitory— she wasn't anywhere that he would expect her to be. Then, in the middle of the afternoon, he went to the cellars. There was no point in searching for someone who, it seemed, had vanished.

But then he saw her carefully making her way down the narrow staircase to the cellars.

Her blonde hair was carelessly tied back by a ribbon. She walked slowly, most likely being careful of her injuries. Her face was drawn and pale. Her eyes, though... They were blank and almost dead-looking, as if she had lost the will to do anything.

He recognized that look.

He felt some sort of pity for her. She was supposed to be happy, and she was supposed to be dancing on the stage. But the chief scene-shifter had taken it away from her, at least for a time.

A thought entered his mind, something Eléanore would say. How would he feel if he couldn't have anything to do with music? He hazarded a guess that dance was that way for her.

So, grudgingly, he followed her.

She went to the third-level cellar, the same cellar where he had accidentally been seen by the idiot scene-shifter, Buquet. And sure enough, Buquet was in the third-level cellar with a bottle of alcohol. _Speak of the Devil and he doth appear_. Though usually Erik applied that to himself.

"Ah, Meg!" Buquet stood up, swaying slightly. Erik mentally noted the name for later. "Come to find out more about the Opera Ghost?"

What?

"For your information, Buquet, I've done enough," Eléanore's daughter— Meg— snapped. "I've come to demand an explanation for why you decided to throw me against a wall and cause me to break two ribs."

Buquet's attack sounded worse than Erik had thought.

"Oh, come on, Meg, surely you realize that you were in the blame. You attacked me first, remember. I was merely talking."

"About things you should never talk about, Buquet! When will you understand that?"

"So you _still_ want to have the dressing room with a two-way mirror so you can change and the Phantom—"

"_Stop, Buquet!_ I never wanted that, and you should be— be—"

Buquet started laughing. "You can't even come up with a decent retort. How pathetic."

The situation was much, much more serious than he had thought.

"I'll get you fired," Meg said in a low, throaty voice. "I'll get you fired from the opera and you'll— you'll have to _beg_ to survive."

"Oh, that's threatening, excuse me while I go and sob out of fear. _You're_ the one who should be afraid."

Buquet started moving towards Meg, slowly, and his voice dropped until it was only a malicious whisper. Meg did not move, for whatever reason.

"I could find out where you live, Meg." Buquet was right in from of Meg. Erik could hear her breath growing shallow. "I could find out where your bedroom is." Buquet suddenly gripped both of Meg's small wrists into his right hand. Then his left hand, ever so slowly, touched her neck. Erik saw Meg start to tremble. "I could come _into_ your bedroom. And perhaps do this."

His left hand slowly moved down Meg's smooth neck, down to her collarbone. Buquet's fingertips toyed with the fabric of Meg's dress.

"Or _this_," Buquet whispered.

His left hand, torturously, slid from her collarbone, down her chest, and cupped her breast.

"_And no one would ever know_."

Meg jerked her wrists out of Buquet's grips and ran.

Erik had a strong wish that he had brought his Punjab lasso.

Buquet, strangely, did not follow Meg. Perhaps he considered it a cat-and-mouse game— when the injured mouse continuously let itself be captured by the cat. He merely laughed and drank out of the bottle nearby.

Erik left and went in the direction that Meg had fled, as it looked like Buquet wasn't going to come after Meg at the moment. He found her on the staircase leading up to the opera's main floor.

Her forehead was pressed against the stone wall, and she was crying.

Erik did not know much of anything about this Meg Giry. She was no Christine, after all. But she was a person that obviously few people cared about; and if they did, it was usually for the wrong reasons.

Eléanore had been right about that, at least.

He would write to the managers, he decided. A dancer in his _corps_— a dancer that reminded him too much of himself— did not deserve to be abused.

And Buquet, Erik decided, would have to be dealt with.

* * *

"M. Firmin, monsieur," Mme. Giry said as she entered the office, holding a paper lined with black, "I have a message."

"From the Opera Ghost, I presume?"

"Yes, monsieur." Firmin looked at André, sighed, and took the note from Mme. Giry.

No one knew that Erik was concealed on the other side of the wall, looking through a small hole in a painting of an old production of Mozart's _Don Giovanni_. Erik had never thought of the irony until now.

Before Firmin could read the note, however, the Vicomte de Chagny entered the office. Erik felt a customary surge of hatred for the nobleman.

Until he heard the Vicomte speak.

"M. Firmin, M. André, forgive me, but I must speak to you immediately. I tried to contact you last night—"

"If this is about Mlle. Daaé, she has returned, monsieur."

"It's not about Christine Daaé, M. Firmin. It—" The Vicomte looked at Mme. Giry, as if asking for her permission. She nodded slowly.

"It is about a dancer in your _corps de ballet_, monsieur."

"Funnily enough, I have a note from the Opera Ghost about a dancer right here. What is it, M. le Vicomte?"

"Mlle. Giry was attacked last night, monsieur."

"Mlle. Giry? She must be your daughter, Mme. Giry—"

"Monsieur, I don't think you understand. Mlle. Giry was attacked by a stagehand, I don't know what his name is—"

"Joseph Buquet, monsieur," Mme. Giry offered.

"Thank you, madame. This Joseph Buquet threw Mlle. Giry against a wall, monsieur."

"Was she taken to a doctor?" Firmin asked.

"Yes."

"Then André and I cannot do anything else, M. le Vicomte."

"Mlle. Giry was attacked by someone in your own company, monsieur! Surely you see the need to question your staff before something like this happens again!" The Vicomte, Erik hated to admit, had a good sized streak of honor running through him.

"M. le Vicomte, things like this happen all the time, there is nothing we can do—"

"You _can _do something, monsieur. Fire Joseph Buquet."

"Now, hold on, monsieur," André said. "Joseph Buquet has been working with the Opéra Populaire for years, there was nothing in Buquet's records that M. Lefèvre left us that suggest that Buquet is dangerous in any way."

Erik remembered Buquet's words: _and no one would ever know_. Clearly, if this kind of thing had happened before, Buquet had found a way of not getting caught.

"M. le Vicomte is your patron, monsieur," Mme. Giry said. "Surely you can believe the word of someone whose reputation is clean and who is supplying you with funds, monsieur. Do you know if the Opera Ghost's note mentions anything on the subject?"

"All I know is that he says something about a dancer... here it is. '_A dancer in your ballet company has been attacked by the chief stagehand. I ask that you question Joseph Buquet before anything worse happens. O. G._' That's all it says."

"It would be unwise to ignore the command of the Opera Ghost, monsieur," Mme. Giry said.

"Look here, M. le Vicomte, a ghost is not going to know about the going-ons on a stagehand and a ballerina. For all we know Mlle. Giry willingly associated with Buquet."

"My daughter would not, monsieur," Mme. Giry said.

"At any rate, I'm sorry, monsieur, but there is nothing André or I can do, since Mlle. Giry has been taken to a doctor. It is out of our hands."

"Speak with Buquet, monsieur."

"That wouldn't reveal anything, monsieur. Now I kindly ask that this meeting be adjourned until a later time. André and I have a meeting with Signora Giudicelli in a few minutes. Good day, monsieur, madame." The implication was clear, and after a few minutes both the Vicomte and Mme. Giry left.

The whole meeting confirmed Erik's suspicions that the new managers were idiots.

He would have to deal with Buquet himself.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Three months later, Meg was in the dancers' rehearsal room, practicing. The opening of _Il Muto _was that night.

Her injuries had taken a while to heal. For a month and a half, she had come to rehearsals simply to sit and watch as her mother taught the dancers the steps. Her pride had flared when Cecile had been named Sorelli's understudy— but Meg wouldn't have been able to dance, anyway.

But surprisingly, she was instead told that when she was healed, she was going to be considered for a role in _Il Muto_. She would still dance, but— it wasn't even as a dancer, but as a singer. A character who had a name. It was minor, true, but it would be the first time Meg had done something like this. It would be her debut.

So when the opera was nearly only two months away, Meg finally was allowed by the doctor to rehearse. Meg felt stressed and panicked for the two months, certain that she wouldn't be able to remember the songs or the steps in time for the opening.

It was all because of Buquet.

She had avoided Buquet like the plague for the three months until _Il Muto_. Her mother had been partly instrumental in that, for which Meg was grateful; there was only so much she could do to stay away from Buquet.

The door opened, and Meg whirled around, her stomach twisting out of habit for fear of it being Buquet. But it was Christine, her hair hidden by the Serafimo wig and dressed into the blouse and trousers needed for the mute trouser role.

"Meg?"

"Yes, Christine?"

"Are you sure you're going to be all right to go onstage?"

"Why would I not be?" Meg was deliberately avoiding Christine's underlying question, and they both knew it.

"Meg—" Christine came up to face Meg. "I— I heard what happened, and I think your mother would be fine with you not performing tonight—"

"I can't just not perform, Christine! If I don't, then it will show that— that Buquet has a hold over me. I _have _to go onstage."

"Meg, it wouldn't be safe, Buquet would be right there all the time—"

"Why is everyone insisting that I'm some weak 'damsel in distress'? _I can take care of myself_, Christine!"

"You're not safe, Meg—!"

"I'm perfectly safe! No one needs to 'protect me', do you understand? I can handle it!"

The door opened, and Meg and Christine looked to see the callboy at the doorway. "The performance starts in half an hour. Mlle. Daaé, you need to see the makeup department, and Mlle. Giry, you need to get dressed." Christine and Meg both replied, "thank you, thirty," as the door shut behind him with a loud click.

"I have to go, Meg, but— just be careful, all right? I'm your friend, and it shouldn't be strange that a friend cares about your well-being."

"All right. Thank you, Christine. And break a leg."

"You too." Christine smiled over her shoulder as she left for the makeup department.

After Christine was gone, Meg turned and looked at herself in the tall mirrors, scrutinizing herself. She normally didn't do this, but— why was she going to be listed in the program after all that had happened? Who had been crazy enough to cast _her_— little Giry, with not long and not short legs, with plain, banal brown eyes, with no beautiful features— in even a minor part?

But then she considered that perhaps her mother had been instrumental in the casting choice. If that was true, then letting Meg have more stage time meant less time backstage— and less likelihood of running into Buquet.

What had happened to her life?

* * *

Everything felt out of focus.

La Carlotta was, strangely, at her best tonight. It was odd, that someone could sing and act perfectly well when it seemed the whole world was going to come crashing down.

Meg didn't know how she did it. She remembered physically being onstage, holding the prop that she had now forgotten the details of, singing with Rose-Marie and Marcel and Antoine as Étienne, the production's Don Atillo, stood to the side. But everything seemed to blur together.

But then La Carlotta started croaking like a toad, with her "co-acks", and the production was stopped. André and Firmin made excuses and Carlotta was ushered offstage. Then André announced that the Act III ballet, the _Dance of the Country Nymphs_, was going to be performed while Christine was getting ready. Meg ran back to the dormitories with the other dancers to change.

"I still say," Cecile said as she hastily laced her toe shoes, "the Phantom has something to do with this. La Carlotta's voice was perfectly fine before."

"Honestly, Cecile, will you stop with the Phantom already?" Meg snapped as she fitted the shorter blonde wig over her long curls. "He doesn't exist."

"Then how did you get to have a role? How did you get to be Sorelli's understudy for the gala?" Cecile smirked when Meg didn't reply. "I thought so. _You_ just are jealous that _I'm_ going to be the _sujet_ instead of you. No one cares about your role, but everyone notices the _sujet_."

Cecile left in a rustle of tulle and satin and tarlatan, a green-and-rose blossom among weeds. Meg resisted the urge to curse.

But halfway between the stage and the dormitories, she heard, as if in a nightmare:

"Meg!"

Buquet was drunk this time. Meg didn't know how he got away with being intoxicated during a performance when he clearly could barely stand straight— but Buquet always had a habit of doing things unnoticed.

Everything in her told her to go. She was going to miss the ballet, her mother would punish her— and if she stayed, she would have to deal with Buquet.

It seemed that, like before, her mind and— whatever it was that made her associate with Buquet— didn't communicate.

"What do you want?"

"Come, come, there's no need to be harsh. You've been avoiding me for three months. Why?"

"You threw me against a wall and made me unable to dance for a month and a half. And you—" Meg felt bile rising in her throat— "you..." She couldn't say it.

"Had a bit of fun?" Buquet grinned.

Meg was starting to feel sick, out of revulsion and fear and a feeling that Buquet was not going to be as easy to handle this time.

Then Buquet started walking towards her.

Meg started backing away. _Why _did she not carry a knife with her? "Buquet—"

"What's the harm, Meg?" He kept coming closer, and she kept moving back. "You know you're never going to have a nobleman pay any attention to you. You're never going to have any _fun _with a nobleman, if you get my meaning. Why so hesitant? Or..."

Meg was now standing against the wall, and Buquet was much, much too close.

"Or is it because you harbor secret feelings for the Phantom, who we both know exists, who isn't some ghost like he wants everyone to believe but is really a man?"

Did she? She didn't know.

He leaned forward until his breath brushed her ear. "Do you _want _to stay a virgin your entire life?"

Meg snapped then, finally coming back to reality and realizing what Buquet had in mind. She shoved against him, hissing, "_Get away from me—!_"

But it was too late.

Buquet pressed her against the wall, quickly and roughly, pinning her there, because of his size and strength. A hand snaked across her mouth, silencing her. She turned her neck from side to side almost violently, trying to shake off his hand, but to no avail.

Then his other hand fumbled with her skirts, and Meg almost started crying in terror, because there was no one else around to stop Buquet, and she couldn't fight him because of his strength over her, and— _he was going to rape her, here and now_.

But just as Buquet's hand reached the smooth, pale skin on the inner part of her thighs, he was pulled away from Meg and shoved against another wall. Meg crumbled to the ground, her skirt still around her waist. A man had his arm against Buquet's neck, and a look of murder was in the man's eyes.

A black cloak. A white mask.

The Phantom.

But then, somehow, during the struggle, Buquet got out of the Phantom's hold and ran. The Phantom almost went after him, but stopped for a few seconds and turned to Meg. She pulled her skirt down so she was decent. A mixture of anger and something else that Meg couldn't read were in the Phantom's eyes as he looked at her. He said only one thing to her:

"This is my payment of my debt to your mother— Buquet will never hurt you again."

She could only look at him, her heart pounding in her chest.

Then the Phantom was gone.

* * *

Meg never did get back to the performance.

Christine found her, although it was almost by accident. She was hurrying to her dressing room, the Vicomte at her side. Christine almost didn't see Meg, who by now was huddled against the wall, her arms holding her knees to her chest, as she imagined, over and over, the scene that seemed as if it should have come from an opera.

"_Meg!_"

Christine knelt by Meg's side and put a hand on Meg's arm. Meg flinched— just as she had when the Vicomte had found her in the dressing room— and Christine lifted her hand away. "What happened—?"

"Buquet—" Meg choked out. "Buquet— he—" She could feel a mixture of panic, terror, and hysteria welling inside of her.

"— he— t— _touched _me—"

"Raoul, find Mme. Giry," Christine said. M. le Vicomte nodded and disappeared.

"Meg... Buquet is dead," Christine said gently. "Everyone's saying he was killed by the Angel— sorry, the Phantom—"

"He's not really dead!" Meg's voice was high with hysteria. "He's always going to be inside my head, taunting me!"

"Meg, no—"

"Yes, he is, Christine! He's always going to be taunting me about the Phantom and being a virgin, and— _Christine, he— tried— he tried to—_"

Then her mother and M. le Vicomte were there, and her mother was kneeling by her side, asking, "Meg, what happened?"

"Mme. Giry, I believe that Buquet tried to— rape Meg," Christine said quietly. Mme. Giry sucked in a breath and looked at her daughter as M. le Vicomte let out a soft curse of horror and shock.

"Meg, I need you to listen to me," Mme. Giry said, firm as ever and somehow calm. "What do you mean he 'tried to'?" Meg shook her head, tightly closing her eyes in an effort to stop the tears, but her mother persisted. "Meg, this is important. Please tell me."

Meg drew a ragged, shaky breath.

"He— was going to— but then the Ph— Phantom pulled him off me— but Buquet g— got away—"

"And the Phantom killed Buquet on the catwalk," her mother finished. "He did have a purpose, then."

"The Phantom?" M. le Vicomte asked.

"The Phantom does exist, whether you believe it or not," Mme. Giry said shortly. "He just exists differently than what most people think."

Then Mme. Giry became businesslike once more. "M. le Vicomte, I need you to tell the managers that Meg will be taking a leave of absence for her health. Christine, I need you to go to the ballet dancers' dormitory and bring Meg's clothing to your dressing room; she needs somewhere quiet to change so we can leave as soon as possible." Both Christine and M. le Vicomte left.

Mme. Giry focused on her daughter. She was uncharacteristically gentle. "Meg, I know you don't want to, but you need to get up. I'll take you to Christine's dressing room so you have some privacy." Meg nodded and stood, though her legs were trembling so violently that she barely could keep herself erect.

No one would forget this night for years to come.

* * *

One month later, Erik stood concealed in Box Five, watching as workers swarmed the stage, repairing the wood so that, eventually, it would be usable once more. Similarly, in the middle of the auditorium sat a new, sparkling chandelier, waiting to be fastened to the ceiling. Now that he looked back, he considered that the chandelier hadn't exactly been necessary.

But Buquet's death had.

Erik had not seen a glimpse of Eléanore's daughter— Meg— over the past month. He had seen Eléanore come to the opera almost every single day, her face drawn as she held rehearsals. Jammes, in Meg's absence, had filled the spot for Sorelli's understudy on many occasion, which Erik was not happy about. Perhaps Jammes was the more beautiful of the two— but Meg was the one who worked harder.

But Erik understood why Meg was taking a leave of absence. More than once, he would see couples kissing or embracing or entwined around each other as he made his way unseen through the backstage area, and it would remind him not just of Christine and the Vicomte— which, as they were secretly engaged, could make him furious in an instant— but also— and this would quell his anger and replace it with guilt— Buquet and Meg.

He could have done more, he realized now. He could have pressured the managers to talk to Buquet, he could have gotten Buquet fired— he could have seen this earlier. He could have seen more of what was happening with the opera house than just what pertained to Christine's success.

Eléanore entered Box Five just then. He was sure she couldn't see him, but her eyes scanned the box all the same as she left two pieces of paper on the little shelf built into the box. She left without a word.

The first paper, he learned as he read, was written by Eléanore.

_Erik,_

_I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am that you helped Meg that night. While I am not convinced that Buquet's death was necessary, it did prevent anything like what happened from happening to Meg or anyone else again._

_I told Meg that you had made her the _prima ballerina_ for the gala and that you had give her a role in _Il Muto_. I am not convinced she believes me, but I made her aware of your kindness._

_Meg will be coming back to the Opera soon, if you care to know. I am aware that you have been composing for your opera, so you do not think of her, but I thought it would be common courtesy of me to tell you of her imminent return._

_Eléanore_

_Postscript: Please do not insist that Cecile Jammes be La Sorelli's understudy, for I certainly will not. Meg deserves it more than her._

Erik mentally agreed with Eléanore's postscript; from what he had seen, Jammes was too conceited for her own good. And after all that had happened, Meg _did _deserve it.

The second paper bore the single word _Monsieur _on the front. There were only two words inside, written in a neat script:

_Thank you._


End file.
